


Moonage Daydream

by fivehorizons



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, M/M, Marauders' Era
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-30
Updated: 2017-07-13
Packaged: 2018-11-21 15:54:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11360682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fivehorizons/pseuds/fivehorizons
Summary: After defecting from Fenrir Greyback's vicious pack of werewolves, orphaned teenager Remus Lupin is left in the Forbidden Forest to die. Whether by luck or magic, he's discovered by a group of boys who call themselves the Marauders. With their help, he's accepted as a late student to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, the school he never dreamed of setting foot in. While he learns to find peace and happiness with these new people, darkness is growing in the wizarding world, and Remus just might be the key to bringing an end to the evil forces threatening to tear apart everyone he holds dear.





	1. Chapter 1

Sirius wipes the dribbles of firewhisky slipping out the corner of his lip and successively steps over a fallen tree branch. In his drunken stupor, it’s the equivalent of catching the Snitch in a match between Gryffindor and Slytherin or passing all his OWLS even though he didn’t study (neither of which have ever happened; one—he was a Beater; two—studying doesn’t ruin his punk image), and he pumps his fist in the air, chanting for his own victory.

James indulges him, hooting once, before tripping over the said tree branch. He smacks the ground, and though there’s a crunch, Sirius’s best mate is rolling over a second later, groaning out his pain. A crack has formed in the lens of his glasses, but nothing that the wave of a wand can’t fix. Better the glasses than his nose; easier to mend lens than bone, as James has learned over the years.

Sirius and Peter roar, laughing to the point that Peter rolls on the ground and Sirius needs a tree trunk to support himself.

“You both are foul git— _hic!_ —s.” James voice breaks apart with a wave of hiccups, and his friends double once more, laughing out as James struggles to keep the liquor in his stomach and his feet under him as he tries to stand.

 Eventually, James is up, Peter is on his knees, about to keel over from too much firewhisky and laughter, and Sirius clutches onto the tree so tightly fine shards of wood pierce his palms. He doesn’t feel the pain. All he has is this: his best friends, the righteous wankers they are, tossing between them a soon-to-be empty bottle of firewhisky, walking through the Forbidden Forest despite the consequences, and laughing under the full moon.

It’s the perfect night.

Until a sound breaks clean through their laughter, crushing the joyous, boyish hoots into oblivion.

They all drop into silence. Under the brightness of the full moon, Sirius can see the flush drain from Peter’s round cheeks. His own blood runs cold.

James, his voice scarily even, asks, “Was that—”

Before he can even finish the question, there’s an answer.

A collection of howls, inhumane and haunting, raise from the ground, echoing between the tree branches before rumbling against the night itself. The stars seem to burn brighter, the moon shining cruel and beautiful, at the wolves’ baying cries.

Not wolves. Werewolves. Here, in the Forbidden Forest, and close.

The realization sobers Sirius up to near-perfect clarity. The two other boys are effected similarly, all of them straightening and backing towards the way they came.

“What do we do?” asks Peter, his voice a hoarse and frightened whisper. “Oh Merlin, we’re going to die.”

“We’re not going to die,” snaps Sirius, because that’s always his response to Peter’s freak-out sessions. Albeit, most of the times when Peter panics is just because a prank is too daring, a dare too raunchy. This—the pounding of padded feet striking the earth, the heavy pants of massive beats, the unearthly melody of dissonant howls—is worth the panic blowing out Peter’s eyes.

Some of the beasts call to the moon in deep growls, others at piercing beckons. Not that the sound matters for anything else other than this:

The werewolves are almost on top of them.

Sirius looks to his best friends; Peter, who cheats his way through the easy classes and barely passes the harder ones; James, who shares his notes with Sirius but always falls short of answers when in class. The three of them are more preoccupied with pranks and the brilliance of magic outside the classroom, and Sirius loves that about their dynamic.

Until they’re faced with a near-death experience, and none of them quite have the mind to maneuver them out of the situation.

When a howl sounds close enough to dagger in Sirius’s ears, they finally act. James orders, “Get under the roots.”

Sirius doesn’t question him, just follows as James drops back to the ground. He’s the most athletic of the bunch, being Gryffindor’s Quidditch star and all. Mimicking his movements, Sirius and Peter drop to their stomachs and crawl beneath the roots that breach the earth, their mounting curves acting like a home, the likes of which seem more comfortable for Bilbo Fucking Baggins than three seventeen-year-old boys.

But they manage to fit beneath the base of the towering tree, with its old but strong roots acting as a barricade around them. They are submerged underground, almost completely out of sight.

Their protection isn’t much; it will barely hold up against the fangs of the werewolves when they find them. If, Sirius chastises himself. They may be in werewolf territory, but the Marauders have a penchant for surviving horrible situations.

Now it’s Sirius’s turn to bark orders. “Cover yourself in dirt!” he hisses.

“What?” squawks Peter.

“Their scent,” he says, and that’s all he’s able to explain before the footsteps close around them.

The boys quickly but quietly dowse themselves in the surrounding soil, rubbing it across their exposed skin and sticking it down their robes. It reeks, not the smell of the earth made pliant and soft after the rain. This is old and untouched, as musty as it is ridden with refuse.

Sirius swallows his gag and slaps patches of soil onto his cheekbones. He goes to dig up more, but a heavy footstep falls right before the tree they cower beneath.

All the boys freeze, their breaths stuck in their lungs. Terror runs down Sirius’s spine, an electric sensation that he’s never experienced before. It’s not like the dread of facing his mother, which he usually covers over with brash laughter and snappy comments. This is bone-deep, gripping, and Sirius is left paralyzed besides his best mates as not one, nor two, but a whole pack of werewolves enters the clearing ahead of them.

There’s too many bodies shifting and roaming to count. All of the wolves are massive and rugged, ferocious and terrifying. They snap and growl at each other, and it’s not until one wolf, the largest and most horrible of them all, takes to the center of the pack that Sirius realizes they’re trying to hold a conversation.

The massive wolf, the leader of the pack, howls, his jaws snapping the sound back after a long minute. Goosebumps run up Sirius’s arms, and it’s an effort to not tremble in his spot between James and Peter.

The werewolves say nothing, their voices and speech lost to their savageness, but there seems to be a flowing conversation held between the wolves. Sirius’s eyes narrow because _no_. It doesn’t seem much like a conversation…but more like a trial.

The pack splits into two factions; all of them against one wolf, the smallest of them all. He yips, as if pleading, and croons, as if begging. Meanwhile, the pack leader snarls at him, his fangs dripping with saliva. The other wolves snap and edge towards the lone wolf, but none of them get close to actually hurt.

At first, Sirius thinks it’s because this ostracized wolf made a little mistake, and after all this discourse is settled, he’ll be accepted back by the pack, almost like the arguments he got into with James and Peter on a regular basis.

But then the pack leader growls from deep within his throat, and the others back away, clearing a path from him to the lone wolf.

Without any other warning than his throaty growl, the pack leader attacks.

Peter yelps, but James reaches across Sirius to clamp his hand over his mouth. Thankfully, no one hears his terrified cry.

Sirius makes no sound, doesn’t even move. He can only watch as the pack leader’s jaw tries to clamp down on the lone wolf’s neck.

The lone wolf kicks back onto its hindlegs at the last second, avoiding the sudden death. Sirius can’t explain the relief that washes through him—they’re both bloody werewolves on Hogwarts’s campus, why should he care if one dies—as the lone wolf survives, only to dive forward with his own vicious attack, growling and pouncing and calling for blood.

The fight lasts for _hours_ , but no one intervenes. The other werewolves merely watch, and so do the three wizards hiding under the tree. Each group holds their breath when the blows look lethal, loosen them when they prove not to be, roar at the successful hits, and snap at the missed ones.

But when the sun finally begins to peak over the horizon, the victor is obvious—from the matted blood (not his own) on his fur to the pieces of flesh caught between his vicious claws. The pack leader breathes heavily, but stands tall. His jaw sets into what can only be called a smile, though all sharp malice it truly is.

The lone wolf—smaller, fairer, deader—is stuck on the ground, barely able to follow one breath with another. A puddle of crimson forms beneath his limp body, spreading too fast and far to be good.

The pack leader sees what Sirius sees; the lone wolf is dying.

And with that he turns away from his opponent and beckons to his pack with one long howl of victory. They return it, and follow their leader as he surges deep into the Forbidden Forest.

All that’s left behind as the sun rises to a bloodred dawn is a bloody, beaten boy.

And he is the most beautiful boy Sirius has ever seen.


	2. Chapter 2

Remus Lupin knows he’s dead.

He knows he’s dead because when he emerges from a deep pit of darkness that seems to have no end, his body is supported by cushions. Stiff and old, but cushions all the same.

He knows he’s dead because there are bandages on his body, pressed neatly against the wounds he feels throbbing. No one in the pack is ever allowed to treat their post full moon wounds.

He knows he’s dead because when his eyes flutter open, pushing against the heavy weight forcing him into oblivion, there is the handsomest human boy at his side, staring down at him intently.

The boy with his fixed stare, eyes slate gray like the sky before a thunderstorm, notices the moment Remus is awake. Over his shoulder to people he can’t see, he calls, “He’s awake!”

And then suddenly there are two other boys at his side, one of them attractive, the other one not so much, but both staring down at him with the same worried, incredulous look. Remus can’t figure out if they’re worried about him or themselves or about the whole situation because bloody hell—“Where am I?” the question pops out before he can stop himself.

His voice is horrid, just as it always is after the full moon. It sounds like stars scarping down towards the horizon. His throat itches at the grate, desperately in need of water.

If any of the boys are put off by his voice, they say nothing. They hardly blink, too busy ogling at him.

Remus swallows dryly before trying again. “Where am I?”

The boys open their mouths all at once, but the answer comes from none of their mouths.

Behind them, a voice kindly bellows, “You are at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.”

A weathered old man steps out from the crowd of boys. He has a white beard that tickles his stomach, covered over my mauve robes that’d be gaudy on anyone else. Half-moon glasses rest down his large, crooked nose, hanging by the knob. Beyond the lenses, eyes framed by wrinkles and bags burn with brilliance and wit, although with a bit of delusion in them.

Remus is so in awe over this strange but interesting old man that it takes a moment too long to register what he said.

“I’m where?” he cries, unable to control the shock in his voice. “Hogwarts…here?”

“The infirmary actually,” amends the boy, the handsome one whose eyes Remus first found when he awoke. Remus stares up at him, trying to marvel at someone with a face so smooth and unblemished, nothing at all like the pale white scars clawed over his.

“But, why?” he asks, the question meant for the old man but his eyes unable to leave the other boy’s.

But it is the boy who answers. “We found you in the Forbidden Forest,” he says. He pauses to glance over his shoulder at the old man, but the twinkle in his eye encourages the boy to continue. “After you changed back.”

Whatever has entranced Remus to simply stare at the boy breaks.

They saw him, not only as the boy stuck in the broken, marred body. They saw the wolf.

“You were there?” he asks, horrified. His eyes flash to the rest of his entourage. “All of you?”

They nod, and Remus feels dread coil in his gut. “You know.” It is not so much a question as a statement, a resigned defeat.

These boys know what he really is, yet they’re closed around his bed, looking down at him in worry. He figures it’s because the old man is making them, or they’re just delusional. If they saw him on the full moon’s night, if they were there to watch his trial, then what was meant to be his execution.

Remus begins hyperventilating as he remembers Greyback’s fangs clamping on his throat.

The other boy looks panicked, the color from his cheeks draining. “Hey, hey, it’s okay. We weren’t hurt and you’ll be alri—”

He reaches a hand for Remus shoulder, but Remus reels from the touch, throwing himself up the bed.

It’s as if Remus has burned the other boy, with how quickly he retracts his hand. When it drops back to his side, it’s balled into a fist. He frowns down at his shoes, but before they flicker from Remus, he catches the boy’s eyes burn in fury.

Remus thinks it’s directed at him. Knows it is. He thinks he’ll be sick.

Before whatever food has been shoveled down his throat since the change can inch back up, the old man clears his throat, casting a meaningful look to the group of boys. “Mr. Black, Mr. Potter, Mr. Pettigrew, I think it’d be best if you let me talk with our friend here, alone.”

“But—”

“Mr. Black,” the old man repeats, and the boy falls silent. “Do not fret! He will be under the best care here. You and your friends will be able to visit him until he’s better.”

_And then what?_ Remus wants to ask, but is too afraid. He’s afraid of what the answer must be.

Leave.

A new terrifying question enters Remus’s mind.

_Where will I go?_

He shudders under his sheets. The others notice, but say nothing. Remus can feel their stares, though. He meets none of them, ashamed of himself, of his fears, of his condition.

“Let’s go, boys,” says one of the other boys, the one with glasses and molten amber eyes and golden-brown skin. “Classes to attend and all.”

The trio slowly peels back, stepping away from Remus’s bed. They should be running, screaming to the rest of the school that there’s a horrible werewolf in the infirmary. They should be afraid.    

Instead, that’s the handsome boy, his ebony locks of hair sitting on his shoulders with a slight wave, taking Remus’s hand in his and giving it a tight squeeze. Though only a second-long touch, it fills Remus with warmth that lingers, even after the group of three exits the infirmary without of plenty backward glances.  

The door closes, and words Remus doesn’t realize he’s been holding back come spilling forth as the old man approaches him. “I—I didn’t mean to trespass on Hogwarts’s grounds. The full moon, and Greyback…” Saying his name made Remus pale. “I had no choice,” he rasps out. He’s never had a choice, from the day Greyback snuck into his room and changed his life forever, and for the worst.

He’s ready to beg and plead for forgiveness, but Dumbledore nods his head understandingly. “I cannot imagine what you’ve gone through, Mr. Lupin.”

For some reason, those words undo Remus, and before he can stop himself, he is sobbing into his arms.

What he’s gone through…all of it plays out in his head.

The night of the full moon when Fenrir Greyback tore into his bedroom, ripping him out from his bed by his mangy jaw and changing him into a beast.

Greyback’s claws shredding his parents apart when they entered his room, desperate to save their son. They died together, horrified and anguished looks stuck on their bloody faces, breathing their last breaths as Fenrir dragged Remus away forever.  

The twelve years that followed. Twelve years forced into Greyback’s vicious, heartless pack. Twelve years of abuse, some scars left for others to see, the more painfully ones deeper than that, hidden under his skin.

Then this past month, the weeks leading up to last night’s full moon. The whispers of a man Greyback wished to follow into a war against wizards, the increasing numbers of the pack, the plans to Change more innocents to force them into soldiers.

Last night was meant to be the beginning, the start of Greyback’s rampage. He even had a list of all the children he wanted to Change upon the full moon.

Remus couldn’t take it. He’s allowed to suffer and bleed and hurt for the pack, but it is his curse alone. No one else deserves his life.

So he’d betrayed the pack and planted a trap to keep them caged for the full moon.

The cages failed, but his plan worked all the same. Instead of starting his rampage, Greyback turned his fury on Remus and Remus alone.

They’d chased him across the country, bounding through the hills and rocky terrain to follow him to the place Remus remembered hearing about as a child. Hogwarts. A school of magic, youthful antics, and freedom. If he was going to die, he wanted to be as close to freedom as possible.

But he’s alive and breathing and staring up at friendly eyes that look down at him, concerned.

Remus bows his head, and whispers, “I’m sorry.”

A soft hand comes to his head, ruffling the caramel locks spilling to his ears. “You have nothing to apologize for.”

Remus does. He should’ve defected sooner, should’ve found someone to talk to about Greyback’s plan and history for menace and death.

Before he can take the blame for everything the pack leader has ever done, all the times Remus listened to him and caused ruination, the old man continues, “I believe greetings are in order. I am Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts.”

“Remus.” The boy worries his lip. “Remus Lupin.”

Dumbledore stares down at him in a moment of wonder. When he speaks again, Remus understands why.

“Son of Lyall and Hope?” he asks, his voice quieter than before.

Remus goes rigid under his covers. “You knew my parents?”

“Just your father. I remember all my students, Mr. Lupin.” Dumbledore seems to contemplate what he says next. “I attended their funeral.”

“Oh,” whispers Remus. “Was it…was it nice?”

“Beautiful. A summer’s day. Flowers, everyone dressed in bright colors, as they would’ve wanted.”

“Good,” he says hoarsely. “They deserve that.”

There is a meaningful pause. “We thought you died, too.”

Quietly, Remus mutters, “I should’ve.”

Dumbledore blinks repeatedly. “What was that?”

“I’ve been gone for a long, long time, Professor Dumbledore,” says Remus instead of repeating his degrading comment. “I was just as good as dead to the world. Greyback rarely left me out of his sight, afraid I’d go crying to the nearest wizard for help.”

“But you never did?”

“I never had the chance.” Remus takes in a breath. “Until last night.”

He tells Dumbledore what he’s capable of saying. He mentions his attempt of restraining the wolves, his failure, the confrontation in the Forbidden Forest. He leaves out why he came to Hogwarts and everything that has lead up to his betrayal.

His throat is a knot, almost impossible to speak through when he finishes, “Fenrir and the pack left me to die. They think they succeeded.”

Remus’s fingers ghost the bandages on his throat, remembering the feeling of Greyback’s jaw crunching down on his throat like he meant to behead him.

He holds his fingers over the forming marks, besides the soft beat of his pulse, as Dumbledore says, “Lucky for all of us, Mr. Black and his friends were breaking rules and sneaking around the Forbidden Forest during the full moon. They found you shortly after the moonset. Mr. Black carried you back himself. Without them, I’m afraid Greyback may have gotten what he wanted.”

Mr. Black is the boy with gray eyes, the one who touched Remus’s hands like they hadn’t been covered in bloody fur and claws mere hours ago.

“Please don’t punish them,” Remus finds himself pleading.

“Rules are rules, Mr. Lupin.” Remus frowns, but Dumbledore adds, “They will only be serving a few hours of detention this week. It is nothing they haven’t gone through before, and I’m sure they are more relieved about saving your life. That is worth a handful of detentions, I think.”

Before he can stop himself, he asks, “Why?” He clamps his mouth shut with an audible clench of his jaw before he can go on. _Why am I worth anything?_

There is a long moment of silence, and Remus can’t find it in himself to look up to Dumbledore. He can feel the man’s eyes on him. They’re not probing or condescending, simply watchful and vigilant. The spark in them Remus noticed earlier gives the man a certain flare that Remus can trust, which is so strange. Trust. Packs are supposed to be built on trust, to believe in one another and support them through the pains and isolation, but Greyback’s was born of fear.

Dumbledore begins softly, “I know I do not have the power to change your mind, but you are strong, Remus. Brave and good.” Remus shakes his head, but the man keeps going. “Good men are not made overnight, Mr. Lupin. They must be tested and face the darkest things life has to offer, and still come out from the abyss with a true heart.” His hand comes up, and Remus doesn’t balk away when slender, wrinkled fingers carefully set on his chest. “That is what you’ve done.”

New tears roll down Remus’s face, cutting across the crisscross of silver scars. “If I was braver, I would have left sooner.”

Dumbledore doesn’t try lying. “Yes,” he says, and Remus’s lip wobbles. Then, he goes on, “But there isn’t only braver and brawn. There’s brains, and if you had tried to abandon the pack sooner, you would truly be dead. You were too young, too lost. But you waited, whether you’re aware of it or not, for the perfect opportunity. You’re sharp and observant. That has helped you survive as much as bravery and strength.”

Remus blinks up at him. “Why are you telling me all this?”

Dumbledore leans back, but the intensity of his stare does not waver. “Because you’re important, Mr. Lupin…and I believe you can be quite a valuable informant for a small group of us who would like to put an end to the darkness gathering in the wizard world. I’m sure you’ve heard from Greyback of a Dark Lord rising?”

Remus warily nods. He’s caught whispers and hushed conversation, enough to understand that nothing good is to come from the future of the pack.

“We’d love for you to help us,” says Dumbledore.

“Please,” Remus urges. “I want to. I have to.” After remaining docile and compliant for so many years, he needs to do good, make peace. He’s on a path to retribution, and while he knows he’ll never be pure, he can be a better person.

Dumbledore says, “You don’t _have to_ do anything anymore.”

Remus shakes his head firmly. “No, I have to do this. I owe it the wizarding world.” The world he has never had the chance to be a part of. The world Greyback stole from him that fateful night. “So, what must I do?”

“You will be a source of information for us. Greyback assumes he killed you last night, which means he will continue his path of destruction without worrying about you. However, since you are alive and soon to be well under Madame Pomfrey’s care, you may pass on any information you have on Greyback, past or present or future intentions, without him knowing who revealed his secrets. You can share only what you are willing to, and refusing this offer is more than acceptable.”

“I have to do it,” repeats Remus. “I can start now even.”

“Not yet, Mr. Lupin. You are recovering from quite a threat. Once you are healed, we may discuss the topic more deeply. Until then, I have come up with an idea to keep you close to us, safe and inconspicuous.”

“And what’s that?” asks Remus.

The twinkle in Dumbledore’s eyes burns brighter. “Will you join us here as a student at Hogwarts?”

**Author's Note:**

> I have more written for this story but it isn't finished. Kudos and comments would be very helpful/motivating  
> Thanks for reading!!


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